


Alabaster & Crème: The King Wears No Crown

by Somber_Resplendence



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fresme, Frollo - Freeform, Frollophile, Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somber_Resplendence/pseuds/Somber_Resplendence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judge Claude Frollo was a tortured man, and no one recognized it. Many had claimed that he lived behind a mask of stone. They were wrong. He was stone; and nothing could break his foundation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alabaster & Crème: The King Wears No Crown

Obscure shadows of men flickered across the stonework of the building. Their dull armor, battered and stained with the blood of the unjust, rattled in the night as they hacked at a deformed being. Heavy axes pierced flesh and blunt-ended spears summoned an eerie whimpering from the pummeled being which writhed upon the floor.

It spurt blood from it's lips in an attempt to speak, but it's voice had been purged along with it's damned soul. Two trembling mounds of flesh lifted before the dark-violet mass that once served as it's face, and inaudible words of mercy bubbled forth from two jagged strips of flesh that once served as it's lips.

A little boy, his young heart full of curiosity and innocence, raised his soft, grey eyes to his father and silently pleaded with him, for he hadn't understood why the bloody beast before him had to be punished.

"Never allow a soft mind to corrupt your judgment, son," said his father, a man whose hatred was darker than that of the shadows of the soldiers and whose heart held a much stronger foundation than that of the stonework building they stood before: The Palais de Justice.

"Execute him," the boy's father concluded with a careless wave of his hand. He grimaced at the bloody pulp writhing upon the floor, snatched his son by the arm, and briskly turned away, their heavy footsteps unable to drown out the gurgled yelps of the bohemian as the soldiers took to their orders. One hurled his ax atop the bohemian's head, splitting his skull open. Blood splattered, and like a bloody rainfall tiny speckles soared through the air and fell upon the soldiers and slid down the sharp curves of their armor.

A few of the guards snickered, others heinously laughed, but one sound that the little boy would never forget as he was led away by his brooding father was the loud thud of the lifeless body slumping forward and slamming into the ground.

* * *

"Your Honor?" a soldier addressed with knitted brows, rousing his master from a sinister memory. "What is the sentence?"

The judge groaned and rubbed at his aching head, spindly fingers tousling his once brown and boyish hair which had grown pale over the years and darkened to grey. A gavel with a rosary of jade tethered to the handle sat to his right and a golden balance scale sat to his left, yet he used neither in his final determination and instead relied upon the lesson he had been taught: Never allow a soft mind to corrupt your judgment.

More than twenty pairs of hopeless eyes gazed at the judge, secret yearnings of being freed lingering in their chests. And though he would have liked to have uttered the following words, 'execute them,' he found that his wandering eyes fell upon an empty set of shackles within the line of heathens that stood in his courtroom. They were a ghastly sight, those peasants garbed in old flour sacks and rags; however, the gap between the large man and the trembling, elderly woman had once been filled by a rare gem, a beautiful rose growing amongst the weeds, a gypsy woman.

When the judge had first laid eyes upon her, she was shivering in the snow, bare feet surrendering to the bitter frost of winter. He and his faithful men had captured her along with several other vagabonds infiltrating his borders. But it was the way she, that gypsy woman, had thrown her poorly clothed body before him, arms outstretched and forehead kissing the ground, which slightly moved the solid rock resting within his chest.

"Have mercy, m'lord," she had said in a soft whisper, "Spare my people who've no home to go to."

As he sat atop his horse that winter's night, glowering at the foolish woman who dared speak to him, the lines of his frown deepened and greed and dark curiosity ensnared him completely.

A whimper from a sniveling man standing amongst the chained heathens broke the judge from his silent musing over the empty set of shackles, and he cleared his throat, "Take them back to the cellar. I shall deliberate their sentence at dawn."

No sighs of relief or whispered curses from the imprisoned broke the silence that trailed behind the judge as he gathered his judicial robe and rose from his throne. All that could be heard was the rustling of the chain which bound them to one another as the guard led them back to the darkness of the dungeons. The judge however, heard a multitude of noises; no silence resided within, for the war had been waged many years ago. And though his heavy footsteps were loud and rather obnoxious, they did not penetrate the voices of the past which pounded like the gavel atop his head.

"Have mercy," one voice asked. It was low and gruff, the voice of a man who had built his life upon thievery. "Liberate me and I shall surrender all of my spoils to you." He was sincere, his watering eyes proved it to be fact, and the judge, the mortal representation of the law, took the thief's bribe. All seventeen chests of gold, silver, and bronze were brought to the Palais de Justice and at dawn the thief's body hung from a noose.

"Spare my brother and take me instead," asked another voice. It was childish and naïve, belonged to a young man who laid his life upon the Catherine Wheel to save his rebellious brother. It was another bribe the judge had taken, yet when the executioner came to collect the young man and lead him to his death, a grotesque sight of a previous execution lay in his peripheral: a familiar body tangled around the spokes of a wheel.

The judge snarled, rubbed at his aching head in an attempt to rid the voices of his past, but was instantly met with them yet again when he entered his private quarters.

There she stood, that gypsy woman. Her dark lips quivered, and her mind, much like that of the judge, whirled with voices. Many of them begged her to retreat, but one persistently asked her how to move the heavy lump of coal residing within the judge's chest, for she too had bribed the self-righteous man and hoped that he would spare her people.

Gracefully, hands clasped behind his back, the judge crossed the room and took a seat. "Convince me as to why I should liberate your people and perhaps I shall forfeit their executions. However, should I remain unconvinced you will join the lot of them at the gallows."

She winced, choked on his words and begged God for an answer, for she hadn't known what to offer the man who wore golden rings upon his gnarled fingers and spilled poetic, biblical verses of another language she could never hope to understand. No convincing words would fall from her lips and no amount of glittering, family heirlooms which graced her body would be sufficient to quench his boundless wants.

"I'm waiting," the judge snickered impatiently. His voice interjected her feuding thoughts and ultimately decided her offer: she'd resort to a man's natural wanting, the one she had been taught to feed since she had taken her place amongst the thieves and cutpurses of the supposed bohemian sanctuary, the Cour de Miracles.

She pirouetted across the lush red carpet, and her slender arms, marked with obscure bruises from the chains which had bound her in her arrest, rose above her head. Nimble fingers tangled themselves within the raven curls of her hair and her shapely hips gyrated to a song only her heart knew the beat to. She was beautiful in this nature, wicked and sinful as it was, but beautiful nonetheless.

Undisturbed, with fingers steepled and brow lowered, the judge watched the gypsy woman as she lost herself in uncertain ecstasy and lifted her angelic voice in a song. Lyrics of a foreign language numbed his ears and he sneered at the sound of the unholy lines leaving such beautiful lips. It was then that he mused over the idea of keeping the fluttering song bird and stripping her of flight. And when she ventured too close to the brooding judge, luscious lips grinning at him and tempting him as the prey tempts the killer, he struck like a serpent and snatched her by the neck.

Sharp fingers dug into her soft flesh, summoning violent gasping from the very lips that once taunted him. He drew her near, the panting bird that knew not her fate or the unseen horrors of losing her wings and flight.

"Trade your soul for theirs and they shall know freedom yet again." With his dry lips nearly brushing against hers, grey eyes pierced her, missed her heart, and punctured her lungs; all air had left her being. He allowed her no response and released her, yet allowed for her to weep in the darkness of his private quarters when he left her for the night with her tormenting thoughts of regret.

However, in time she would learn to love the cage he had placed her within in; it was made of neither gold nor silver, but it held another precious relic: his heart.

* * *

Winter had come early that year. Snowflakes fluttered in the chilly breeze and encircled the neighing horses that marched through the deep snow drifts. Guards shouted commands into the silent night which had proved to be treacherous, for none of them had shut their tired eyes since the breaking dawn and the persistent thought of dread, which washed over them at every empty alleyway, left them frightened for their lives. Nevertheless, they carried on and journeyed into the darkness ahead.

"Find her," commanded the judge, fiercely gripping the reins of his panting horse. "Let no man rest until she is found. I want her alive." The guards obeyed. Some ventured to the left, others to the right, and a few remained with the judge. And while he had also been navigating the city well into the ungodly hours of the night, he retained his composure. His voice was neither hoarse nor exhausted, but his eyes were violently red and his fingers had grown calloused from winter's touch.

A woman's shriek disturbed the silence of the night and caused the judge to sharply whip his head and pursue the shrill sound. Dark curses spilled from a guard's lips as his comrades joined him with upraised spears and surrounded four frightened gypsies. They were trapped behind a wall of guards at the docks near the Cathedral de Notre-Dame. Sharp blades jutted out at them and dared to mark their heathen flesh. Yet, one of them, a man with a heavy mustache and a whimpering wife clinging to his side, boldly drew a dagger but quickly cast it down when the dark shadow of the judge fell upon him.

"Where is the girl?" asked the judge, glowering at the vermin down the length of his hooked nose. The man with the heavy mustache shook his head, and his wife, struggling to suppress the soft whimpers of her newborn babe wriggling in her arms, turned away from the dark figure before her and nuzzled her face within her husband's chest. And the other, a lanky man with a long face, cast down his eyes.

"Round them up and take them to the Palais," commanded a guard who had grown agitated, for the night would be sleepless; and whether the gypsies were protecting the girl or not, he'd have them all committed to the gallows if it meant shutting his eyes for a brief rest.

One soldier, face concealed by his visor, snatched the whimpering wife and pulled her away from her husband whose eyes glossed over with fear as another faceless soldier chained and shackled him. The wife, writhing within the soldier's firm hold, shrieked and reached for her husband, forgetting about the wailing babe in her arms which had grown irritated by the commotion. Her fingers desperately reached for him, for she had never spent a day without the man who had vowed to stand by her side until they grew old and neared the door of Death.

Another soldier grasped the lanky man, shackled him, and tethered him to the reins of his horse all while the woman's constant shrieking echoed into the night. Her foreign words rose higher than the wails of her babe, the son she had hoped to raise with her husband; and in the midst of the calamity, she broke free and stumbled towards her husband, stealing one last kiss.

The judge idly mused over the two bohemians, though heathen in their practices, they still managed to uphold the universal practice of love: a kiss. It oddly left him dismayed, and if he hadn't placed a pale hand upon his chest, he'd have thought that his heart was swelling with pain and pushing forth from underneath his rib cage, for his fluttering songbird had never writhed nor struggled for one last kiss—never reached for his dark robe and drew him into an embrace when he'd depart to his duties, often leaving her alone in the Palais for days.

* * *

"We will wed, and you will fulfill your duties as a wife," he had said the morning after their escapade in his private quarters. Her people, once chained with the fate of death, had been liberated upon her agreement to submit herself to the judge, a deed she assumed her people would cherish her for.

She had been an obedient wife, though placed in an unsettling situation. She kept her spirits high, drowned out the negative voices in her head with her unwavering optimism, and strived to find good within the judge. She obeyed him, respected his power, and submitted to him in return for the lavish life he had given her. He clothed her in the finest material, adorned her with shimmering jewels, and allowed her education. But it was ultimately his religion which she latched onto and poured her hope within.

"Marriage is sacred in the eyes of your God," she had once said, fingers gently tracing the pages of the Holy book. "Man and woman become one." She often mused over the idea of love and affection, often dreamed of being held within the judge's arms, melting in his embrace and molding into his form; two lovers becoming one.

However, the judge was rarely in her presence due to his duties and their marriage was hollow. No warm kisses or romantic verses filled their empty cup. And soon she believed that he was not only uninterested in her thoughts, concerns, or longings, but cruel in his neglecting her and cold in his apathy. But he was none of those harsh titles, except oblivious.

"Take it off," he had said on their wedding night as he delicately removed his rings. She hesitated. Though she had danced before many immoral and wicked men in brothels and abandoned alleys, she had never disrobed herself in the presence of a man. But she had calmed her uneasiness with a single thought: He is my husband.

Reluctant and shy, she undressed her body and with blushing cheeks, she hid her feminine form behind her slender arms.

"Get on the bed," he ordered, refusing to glance at her naked form. She obeyed, calmly climbed atop and attempted to draw the soft sheets over her bare body before he snatched them and tossed them to the ground along with his own clothing. Vulnerable, she was revealed to his eyes which neither feasted upon her naked flesh nor drowned in unsaid passion.

He mounted her and never once leaned down to kiss her lips, taste her flesh, or nuzzle his face into the crook of her neck as he penetrated her. And though he reveled in the constricting feeling of her womanhood wrapped around his throbbing member, he maintained his silence save for his heavy panting and muttered, inaudible words. Nevertheless, it was empty, passionless, and repeated for many nights.

* * *

It was then that the lanky gypsy man with the long face shouted and broke the judge from his idle musing.

"Fiend!" he cried, angered by the sight of the gypsy father being pulled away from his whimpering wife and wailing child, "You fiend!" He violently wriggled in the shackles that bound him and wrestled with the guard who attempted to control him, but he continued, "Curse you! Curse you both!"

A heinous noise numbed the old judge's ears. The lanky gypsy man began to wickedly laugh, no longer fighting the restraints put upon him. "Or perhaps," he spat, "the curse has already befallen her!" And he hurled himself into another episode of dark laughter. However, though enraged and repulsed, the judge did not command for the gypsy's immediate execution. Instead he snatched the reins and sped off into the night with one word lingering in his thoughts: curse.

"When will you return?" his songbird had asked him one early morning as she lazily gazed outside a window and embraced the sunrise.

"No later than the evening hour."

"And then will you accompany me?" She had asked the same question many times before, and the judge always had the same answer,

"Perhaps."

He had known of her longing to walk along the Seine River in the midst of the night when the sun had set, for she knew better than to venture out in the daylight where her people roamed, one word falling from their lips: traitor. She had called the sunlight a curse, forbade it, and learned to loathe it.

And it was there along the Seine River that the exhausted judge found his songbird, her wings broken, her feathers plucked, and her eyes gauged. His heart ached, and with every breath a deep pain constricted his rigid body. Silence enveloped his mind as he gazed upon the motionless beauty before him; however, the world around him was shaking with clamor. His guards called for his attention as the gypsy mother ran off into the night with her wailing baby, and the dark laughter of the lanky gypsy man echoed after their calls, but one sound that the judge could not ignore was the imagined and deafening thud of his songbird's lifeless body slumping forward and slamming into the ground.


End file.
